


Aftershave

by wajjs



Series: Across The Universe (vld fics) [18]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Coping, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Other Voltron Paladins, Not Beta Read, Pining Shiro (Voltron), Shaladin Secret Santa 2017, by none of the voltron paladins or anyone we know from the show don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 22:49:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13153659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: The thing is simple.  Absolutely simple.  So simple it can barely be deemed worthy of an explanation.  Maybe what could be explained are the reasons behind the thing, or the follow-up things that happen after this one first, simple, initial thing.The thing is that Lance can’t grow a beard.  All that grows on his face is short, frizzy hair, most of it centered above his upper lip and on the sides of his cheeks, leaving Lance with a sad sleazy moustache.  And it doesn’t even flatter him one way or another, no.  It simply looks bad.





	Aftershave

**Author's Note:**

> Gift fic for sophianimee on tumblr, for the 2017 Shaladin Secret Santa! I apologize I wasn't able to post this on the 24th like I had originally planned! I hope you enjoy your gift, I had a fun time writing this
> 
> To everyone, please mind the tags! There's a very brief scene about a referenced past suicide attempt from a flashback Shiro has, but it's by none of the paladins or anyone we know from the show for that matter. Let me know if you need me to change the tags/add other tags!

 

 

**Aftershave**

 

 

 

   The thing is simple.  Absolutely simple.  So simple it can barely be deemed worthy of an explanation.  Maybe what could be explained are the reasons behind the thing, or the follow-up things that happen after this one first, simple, initial thing.

   The thing is that Lance can’t grow a beard.  All that grows on his face is short, frizzy hair, most of it centered above his upper lip and on the sides of his cheeks, leaving Lance with a sad sleazy moustache.  And it doesn’t even flatter him one way or another, no.  It simply looks bad.

 

   This is what prompts Lance to shave every day rigorously.  Back on Earth he did, now in space and in the middle of a war he continues doing so.  He has to.  It’s routine, it’s ingrained within his mornings, it is something that defines a little part of him in surprising ways.

   Shaving is as important as the other steps in his morning skincare routine.  It’s his little moment of normal.  Something he would’ve never paid much attention to if they had never left Earth.  But now Earth is far, far away, who knows how many light years of distance, he never tried to calculate it, he always feared those numbers.  Instinctively he knows that the moment those numbers are thrust upon him, then that little part of him that still shines with the hope of ever coming home will dwindle until turning into merely a flicker ready to be put out.  Home has never been this far and the thought is like a heavy crown resting on his head, digging at his temples, carving through his brain.

   Out here in space there isn’t much he can do to keep the flame alive.  He sticks to whatever sense of normalcy he can and holds onto it with more determination than the one he puts on for carrying on day after day.  If he doesn’t have these small little things keeping him afloat, Lance is sure he’ll slowly end up going crazy.  After all, spending such a long time with always the same faces as company is already something not entirely ideal.  Sure, it makes their interpersonal bonds stronger and reliable, but it also jars them with the feeling of loneliness, knowing that all around them there’s nothing but literal space and more space and stars that seem so close but are so far, afar from any other kind of living being.

 

   Grumbling a bit, Lance carefully washes off his facial mask and stares at his reflection in the mirror.  His heart settles in his chest at the familiarity of the motions, and he hums a bit, rubbing his fingers over his cheeks and along his jawline before going on with his routine.  By now he knows more than well that he has plenty of time to shave before Allura starts calling for them.

   Lance learnt this the only way he could: by the trials of routine.  After so long, the daily early schedule is now deeply ingrained within his habits, and like this he now times everything perfectly and he’s rarely one of the last to show up for training (or for any other activity they were set to fulfill after waking up —excluding breakfast).  Face always clear and clean, he takes great pride in how his skin shines under certain lights and how soft it is even if they are all at war and other parts of his body aren’t so soft anymore, instead littered in all types of scars.

   The most visible part of him remains intact and when he looks at the mirror he only truly looks at his face, because that’s normal, this is normal, there are no scars here to throw him back into this weird dream that so many times is a nightmare and other times is just... ok.  For a moment he can pretend.

 

—

 

   With repetitive, constant use things tend to wear down.  They become less effective.  They break.

   Lance curses one morning when he applies more pressure than what he uses to while shaving and ends up cutting his upper lip.  The wound, if it can even be considered one, is small and at first the blood startles him, his eyes opening wider than usual before a low hiss escapes through his teeth.  He quickly, though more carefully this time, finishes dealing with his facial hair before he washes thoroughly again, mindful of the cut.

   It stings more than what he would’ve expected it to.  He frowns as he presses his thumb to the slice on his skin and glares at his reflection for a moment before he decides to move on and focus on more pressing matters.  Like how he needs to get his hands on a new razor or learn how to shave using a knife.  He wants to avoid the latter because he knows it can only mean disaster, so he sets all his hopes in finding a new razor and carrying on like he always does, like everything is normal.

 

   When he goes to meet the others in the control room, his cut no longer bleeds, though it still bothers him.  Luckily he knows for a fact it wasn’t deep enough to leave a scar (and wouldn’t that be ridiculous, to have a scar on his face due to such an ordinary thing?), but it might itch in the next few days and he’s not really looking forward to that.

   Shiro catches his eye and he must’ve noticed something in his expression besides the obvious of being disgruntled, because he approaches him in the seconds it takes Lance to blink.  Which must be a record, even for Shiro.

 

   “Hey Lance,” he smiles gently and Lance can only think of how attractive he looks when he does that thing—that, that thing of smiling with his eyes more than with his lips as he leans closer, as if the limited annulment of distance leaves no room for possible miscommunications, “everything alright?”

   Lance’s cut itches but he grins and ignores it, though for a moment Shiro’s eyes seem to wander towards his stretched lips.  “Yup!,” grinning still, he shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket just to do something with them besides fidgeting over the other’s close proximity, “Everything’s fine!”

 

   He wants to ask Shiro the same, but before he can, everyone’s moving forward with the day’s tasks.  So he licks his lips, feeling the words tingling on them teasingly.  When Shiro glances at him for a brief moment, Lance offers him another grin.  Maybe his eyes are tricking him, but he thinks he can see lines of tension evaporating from Shiro’s broad shoulders.

 

—

 

   Most of the day is gone in what feels like one breath and the next.  Shiro allows himself to relax for a moment as he sits on the floor of the large training room, legs extended in front of him and the palms of his hands (just one slick with sweat) pressed on the ground behind him.  Heat rolls off of him in waves and he can feel drops of sweat rolling down the sides of his temples, some collecting on his upper lip, more pooling on the back of his neck.  His shirt sticks to his chest and back and turns uncomfortable as he begins to cool off, but he doesn’t want to get up and move just yet.

   He knows he should go take a shower soon, but for now he lets his sore muscles rest.  The day had been rather uneventful, no battles fought, no alarms blaring, no need to go on different types of missions.  Days like this one are needed if they hope to maintain at least a bit of sanity, sure, but as it reached its end Shiro had huffed in slight annoyance at his restlessness.  

   Training had helped get rid of that energy that was getting him nowhere, and now he aches, yes, but pleasantly so.  His thoughts drift off towards different tangents and he closes his eyes, leaning his weight on his hands, breathing evenly.  Everyone seemed alright today.  That makes him feel more at ease.

 

   It’s in his nature to worry, he knows.  Even before—before the debacle that came after the Kerberos mission—before… before that,  _ even before that _ he had been like this, he knows.  His memories are fuzzy at best, but the imprints of feelings are there, and he can never stop worrying, stop caring, so he naturally comes to the conclusion that he’s simply been this kind of person since… always?  Or perhaps a long time.  Yeah.  One of both.

   His wrists and elbows start complaining after a while spent in the same position and that’s when he decides enough time has passed.  Besides, he really needs to shower and get changed.  He sweats a lot and it makes him feel dirty, sticky and just simply disgusting.  

 

   One thing he’s thankful for is the presence of showers.  Bless showers.  Bless showers and the pressure of hot water coming down on the knotted muscles of his back, working away his worries and stress and nightmares at the tip of his fingers, washing away his sorrows.

   Shiro’s just turning around the hallway and stepping inside the bathroom closest to the training room when a flash of brown stumbles into his field of vision.  His reflexes are quick enough to have him stop on his tracks but it’s still too late and in the span of one blink and the next someone walks face-first into his chest and lets out a startled squawk that makes mirth tug at the corner of his lips.  Adorable.

 

   “Shiro!,” Lance jumps back to put space between them once more and those blue eyes are open wide as he looks up at him, head barely tilted backwards.  There’s a soft blush dusted over Lance’s cheeks that distracts Shiro for a moment, “I—”

   “Are you alright?,” he smiles and steps to the side, letting the younger man walk out of the bathroom.  Something in his stomach tightens and flutters and for some reason it just makes him feel all the more happy to see the other, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

   “Yeah, I know, I’m—,” the tip of a tongue darts over thin lips quickly, and Shiro doesn’t realize that action made his eyes focus on that mouth like a lifeline even as Lance continues talking, “I was, uh.  Looking for a razor—”

   That makes his thoughts halt, backpedal and then push forwards with such speed and force that if mental whiplashes were a thing, Shiro’s sure he’s just given himself one.  “Wait. What?  A ra—Lance, what—”

 

   There must’ve been something weird about his expression because the other’s shoulders hunch up (definitely a defensive posture, he realizes with mild chagrin), and Lance lifts his hands in front of his chest, hastily trying to explain himself.  The sleeves of his jacket slide down a couple of centimetres and Shiro gives the small patch of skin that’s uncovered a quick glance, something in his chest unwrapping from the tight knot it had formed without him even realizing at the clear lack of scars. 

 

   “It—it’s not that! I, well, I at least think it’s not that, what—what you’re thinking, I mean, I wouldn’t—,” Lance licks his lips again and Shiro forces himself not to follow the motion of that tongue once more, “I.  My razor, the one I had, well, it’s useless now, I accidentally cut my lip this morning, see?,” a long and thin index finger points at the small cut Shiro didn’t (he did) notice earlier during the day, “So I was looking for another one so I can shave without risking, you know, without risking harming my precious face anymore.  I mean, if I can’t find another one then, well, I’ll have to make do until I do and—”

   “Lance,” Shiro breathes, resting one hand, the galra one, on the younger man’s shoulder.  The action is effective and Lance promptly stops rambling, instead looking at him with big adorable—with big earnest eyes, “It’s ok, I get it.  Did you check the medbay?  I guess you did, you’re searching the bathrooms after all.  I,” he looks to the side for a moment before letting his gaze fall back into Lance’s waiting one, “I could lend you mine.  I don’t mind.”

   “But what about you, Shiro? If I use yours then you won’t have one to shave, or it could take both of us longer to get ready during the mornings…,” shuffling a bit, Lance starts nibbling on his bottom lip and Shiro’s gaze is drawn to Lance’s mouth like moth to a flame once more, “It’s ok!,” he settles his thoughts then, it seems, and offers him a bright smile, “Thank you, but I think I’ll just keep looking.  I don’t want to, uh, impose my routine on yours or anything so—”

   “Alright, I understand,” he gives a single step inside the bathroom before he turns to face Lance again, “if you change your mind, just tell me.”

   An emotion Shiro can’t quite pinpoint flashes through blue eyes.  “Yeah, sure!”

 

—

 

   Water pours down on him from over his head.  With a sigh, he rubs his palm against the back of his neck, feeling his muscles relax.  It’s a slow process, but it happens.

   Shiro opens his eyes to stare at the wall of the shower stall, a bitter taste on the back of his tongue, making him wince.  He had overreacted a handful of moments ago when talking to Lance and he can only hope the other doesn’t think of him weirdly because of it.  

   He just… He isn’t sure how, but back then, when the younger man mentioned he was looking for a razor, his mind immediately went to the worst possible reason offered by logic and had remained firmly burrowed in it until Lance explained himself.

   Ghosts of old memories tease his conscience and Shiro strains to make heads or tails of the images dancing through the fog of his mind.  The background is clear, so he knows it happened back at the Garrison, and he doesn’t have to be a genius to realize that hearing Lance say the word ‘razor’ had triggered him in a way he would’ve never expected.  He barely remembers the sight of blood staining the tiles of a small bathroom and…

   He somehow knows that the person he’s barely seeing in his memories isn’t Matt.  They aren’t Keith either, or any of his other teammates for that matter.  He can’t remember their name and it’s making him uncomfortable; he wants to remember, even though he knows it wouldn’t mean much in the grand scale of things, he feels like at least getting this one thing back would be the opening for so many other things hidden in the recesses of his mind.

 

   Steam fills up the space around him.  Shiro rolls his shoulders once, twice, and then he closes his eyes and tilts his head backwards to let water fall directly on his face.  His thoughts take him back to earlier that morning, Lance walking into the bridge lost in thought, a barely-there pout making his lower lip seem fatter.  The still irritated cut on his upper lip that Shiro had wanted to touch, to k—Lance’s immediate answering smile when he had noticed Shiro was watching him.  Somehow, frequently enough that he accepts it for a fact, his thoughts always take him back to Lance.

   Maybe it’s because of his warm presence, or how Shiro can tell the other is just as caring as he is.  Maybe it’s the beautiful way he can tell Lance is putting up a front and talking, screaming, singing, joking past his fears, not letting them stop him or slow him down.  Maybe it’s the way Shiro can tell Lance always, always, tries his hardest and maybe it’s the way Lance has grown so much, has become such a vital part of their team, of their lives, that Shiro can no longer imagine a universe that doesn’t hold his presence.  

   Maybe it’s his smiles.  His thin lips.  His surprisingly broad shoulders and his slim waist.  The burn scar on his back, the battle-earned ones on his side, below his ribs.  Maybe it’s the way Lance bends himself into so many shapes trying to cover all the gaps where the nightmares lurk in.

 

   Maybe it’s because Shiro no longer denies himself and admits that he likes Lance that his thoughts always carry him back to the other.  Like they always manage to find the way back home, just like Odysseus found the way back to Ithaca.  Whatever it is, Shiro isn’t complaining.

   And then…

 

   “ _ ‘I could lend you mine’ _ ?,” he groans and spits out the water that suddenly fills his mouth, facing the wall once more after that, “For fuck’s sake, why am I so awkward?!”

 

—

 

   Lance stares at the mirror right after washing off the face mask and simply… pouts.  He admits he’s pouting because no one’s there to see him, and so he pouts and he owns it, because he didn’t manage to find a new razor and he really doesn’t want to harm his skin in any way by using an old one that barely did the job it’s supposed to do.  That is, shaving.

   One day isn’t going to hurt much, he thinks and talks himself into conducting another castle-wide search for a new razor.  Well, not entirely castle-wide since he doesn’t really have the time to actually go through every room in the castle and because he’s sure that if he were to try then he’d only get lost in a creepy hallway.  And he doesn’t want that.  Nope.  He also doesn’t want to use Shiro’s even though the other offered it in the first place, both because he doesn’t want to impose his silly coping methods onto Shiro’s time and because, well, for some reason sharing a razor is classified as  _ intimate  _ in his mind.

 

   He’ll make do.  Nodding to himself, he moves on to the other steps of his morning routine even though he feels uncomfortable, like something’s missing, like his movements aren’t quite alright.   _ Stop whining about it, stop being so silly _ , he thinks.  He can go two days without shaving, it’s not the end of the world or any other type of thing.  Besides, they are at war.  It’s not like he can ask Allura to set their course towards a spacemall because of this single reason—they are well stacked on supplies and spare repair parts.  Shaving isn’t as important as…

   The alarm blares and Lance yelps before he’s running out of the small bathroom attached to his bedroom and hurries to put on his armour.  He finds Pidge on the hall leading to the main bridge and they look at each other once but don’t say a thing.   _ At least while moving like this, Pidge won’t be able to see I didn’t shave _ , he tells himself.  Small mercies.

 

—

 

   Two days turn into a week.  Into almost two weeks.  Lance is growing desperate.

   By now everyone knows he can’t grow a decent beard even if Zarkon himself plowed through the Castle’s halls and demanded he did unless he wanted to see everything being blown up to pieces.  Meanwhile Shiro and Hunk remain clean-shaven, Pidge had stopped shaving her legs shortly after Lance had seen himself forced to because of the same reasons, and she is a bit bothered by it too, though not as much as he happens to be.  She isn’t the one stuck with a sad sleazy moustache, after all.  And no one in the team particularly seems to care about others’ body hair.  Which is great, it really is, but Lance just can’t stop focusing on his sad excuse of a beard.

   He is walking down one of the hallways that lead to the training room when the idea hits him.  It’s not the best option ever, though it is the only one available to him at that moment.  So he turns around and heads to the medbay.  He needs to find a blade.

 

—

 

   Out here in the cold never ending space there isn’t much he can do to keep the flickering flame of hope, hope of ever coming back home, alive.  And so Lance ends up religiously sticking to whatever sense of normalcy he can get a hold of and doesn’t let go of it, always keeping his little piece of normal close to his core with more resolve than anyone else would’ve expected.  Because he needs it, he needs this part of steady, calming routine to not drift apart into numbness and darkness.  He needs it to stay afloat, or else he’ll go crazy.

   Lance knows the others have different things they cling to like a lifeline, like a lighthouse shining their beacon of guidance and hope throughout storms, lightning the way back to the shore, to home, to safety.  Pidge buries herself in the embrace of coding and technology, Hunk in the soft caress of cooking and pulling apart things just to mend them back to a state even better than the one he found them in.  Allura has the mice, she has them, all of them, too, and Coran’s steady and unwavering support.  Keith… Keith clings to his determination and to his blade and to training, to his friends after a while, even though now he’s on another team.  

    Coran has his stories and his memories, has his routines and his knowledge, has the security of always having something to do with his time, with his hands. And Shiro.  Shiro is comforted by the repetitive motions of stretching his muscles before each training session, of the song his blood sings when he moves during fights (whether simulated or real), of the urgency in his steps when he does rounds around the castle and checks on each one of them (just like Coran does, and Lance is so so thankful for it, without Coran all of them would be so lost).

 

   They are all comforted by the sounds of each other's’ laughter and every inhale and exhale of breath, by looking around the common rooms and finding everybody there, by knowing that they are not alone in this endless odyssey and that, one way or another, they will bring each other home.  They joke and tease and they just  _ are _ .  

   They just are, like that one time Shiro typed  _ el barto was here  _ in the last line of coding written by Pidge at what they all assumed was 3am, which had prompted her to ask: “How can you remember that and not any other thing?!” and Shiro had just blinked at her twice before grinning and saying “some things you just can’t forget”.  Or that other time when Keith had tried to cook something for himself and instead somehow set fire to a bowl and its contents—Hunk had hurried to put out the flames but they had all laughed so much, at the end of the day the event turned into another cheerful memory.

   Lance could go on and on and on.  He holds these moments close to his heart and carefully sweeps through them when he’s feeling insecure or alone.

 

   Which is why he’s going through them now, one by one, meticulously, as he keeps pressing a towel to his cheek and walks towards the medbay.  He knows that sooner or later the others will find out about what happened and they will all share a laugh and then that’d be the end of it.  In the meantime, Lance really wants to find disinfectant and gauze to properly treat his (superficial, luckily) cut.  

   What he doesn’t expect, though, is to walk right into Shiro’s broad and firm chest face-first.   _ Again _ .  Not that he’s complaining, there are worse things he could walk face-first into.  Like a wall, or a door, or a knife—speaking of which…

 

   “Oh, hey La—,” Shiro must’ve noticed the towel he’s keeping pressed to his cheek because his hands, his broad strong hands (a voice in the back of his mind yells  _ get it together! _ ), are suddenly clasping his shoulders, “What happened?!”

   He licks his lips then, once, twice, and makes himself look into Shiro’s gorgeous stormy eyes.  “I, uh,” suppressing the urge to curl in on himself, he meekly manages to say, “tried to shave using a blade-like thing?”

   The older man blinks twice, and Lance swears he can almost hear how his brain is processing the information.  Then: “You  _ WHAT _ ?!”

 

   Before he can even reply, Shiro is already steering him inside the medbay and Lance has half the presence of mind to notice that one of Shiro’s big hands moved to wrap around his slim wrist, tugging him along.  He stumbles a couple of times because once he realizes this, he cannot will enough power to move his eyes away from the sight, and warmth blooms in the center of his chest.  

    This is almost like holding hands, isn’t it?  This is—

 

   “I can’t believe you would do that instead of—you could’ve borrowed my razor if it bothered you that much!,” Shiro huffs, barely pronouncing the words enough for them to be understood, almost cutting each of them short, “I told you I didn’t mind!”

   “But it’s—,”  _ intimate _ , Lance swallows thickly and shoots the other a nervous look, pressing a bit harder against the cut and rooting his fluttering heartbeat in the stinging feeling enough to breathe properly, “I mean, I thought I would be able to shave without accidents, and I mostly did!! I have other few, smaller cuts here and there but they stopped bleeding already and it was more like a scalpel-thing anyway so—”

   “Lance,” Shiro’s voice is firm and envelopes his rambling completely, “just…,” with a sigh, the taller man turns to look at him once more after they stopped by one of the cabinets Lance knew held the items he was looking for, “you could’ve asked for help.”

 

   Shrugging, he ignores the disappointed feeling tingling all over his wrist once Shiro lets go.  “I don’t see the point in asking for help when it’s something like this.  And… and if I had, I doubt you would’ve shaved my beard for me and—,” Lance lifts his eyes and stares into the cabinet as Shiro pulls out a bottle of disinfectant and a small package that held gauze.

   “You don’t know that,” Shiro says then, and out of the corner of his eye he notices a smile stretching those pale lips.  “I think it’d be best if you sit on the cot over there, so that I can have a proper look at the cut as I clean it.”

   “It’s mostly superficial, you know.”

   “I still want to look at it.  Now, come on, hop on the bed.”

   Lance laughs, sitting where he was told to as he says: “Ok, ok, I will.  You know, when I imagined you asking me to get on a bed, it was under  _ very  _ different conditions—”

 

   And then, he realizes what he just admitted.

   And then the world  _ stops _ .

 

—

 

   Shiro prides himself in being a quick thinker.  This is what got him through fights for survival in the gladiator arena, this is what kept him alive before crashing down on Earth, this is what kept him in one piece up until now.  But then Lance says: 

_  “You know, when I imagined you asking me to get on a bed it was under  _ very  _ different conditions,” _

   and Shiro’s thoughts just screech and flop on the metaphorical floor of his mind, lifeless.  His thoughts... stop.  Then they try to get up, and they fall again.  Because.  Because— _ what? _

 

   “I…,” he doesn’t know why his throat feels oh so very dry so suddenly, but it does, and so he swallows at least twice before he continues speaking, “you… what?”

   Very eloquent, Takashi Shirogane.   _ Very  _ eloquent.

   Lance, at least, seems to have lost any capability to talk as well.  His cheeks (even though one is mostly covered by the towel he keeps pressed against the cut Shiro still hasn’t seen) darkening with a prominent blush that reaches all the way to his ears, his lovely eyes open wide and his lips, those very lips Shiro has thought of kissing so many times, those thin lips parted and forming a small ‘o’ that shouldn’t be so enticing,  _ but it is _ .

   Shiro carefully sets the items he’s holding next to Lance, trying to gather his thoughts and just say something, anything, besides a simple startled ‘what’.  Maybe he’s overreacting to a joke, to a flirtatious line, but then Lance’s current state wouldn’t entirely make sense, would it?  If it had been simply something to laugh at, then Lance wouldn’t seem so flustered and ashamed and—

 

   “I’m,” Lance’s voice sounds like a squeak when he breaks the electrified silence first, “I’m sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable and uhm, I—I can, I can take care of the cut, you don’t have to—”

   Shiro looks into the blue eyes he’s come to adore so much and notices that there’s fear in them.  Fear of what?  Of him being upset, of rejec—oh.  

_    Oh _ .  

   Dear gods, he can be so blind, can’t he?  Lance is afraid of  _ rejection _ . 

 

   Carefully, slowly, he lifts his hand, the human one, to let it rest against Lance’s one that’s still holding the towel against his cheek.  His heart does somersaults in his chest and his entire world narrows to just the beautiful person in front of him.  Doesn’t Lance know?  Shiro wouldn’t ever reject him.

   Maybe it’s because of this, or maybe it’s because of his quick thinking and instincts, or perhaps it’s due to a mixture of both—or maybe, just maybe, is the way Lance is looking at him, but for some reason or another he decides to take a gamble and hope he’s not mistaken about this.

 

   “This is going to sound very out of the blue,” he says once he manages to steady himself barely enough to speak again, still looking into Lance’s eyes, “and, all things considered, I know this will only—only make some things more complicated, and it might open new gaps we might not be ready to confront or close, but—Lance, I,” his breath hitches when the other drops his hand slowly, the dirtied towel falling over his lap—

   “You… what, Shiro?”

   And he smiles a little at the hope, bright and flickering, that he can see all over Lance’s face, like he can’t quite believe something good is about to happen.  Shiro’s determined to make him believe in it.  “I like you, Lance.  Actually, I think it might be more than that, I think… I think I might actually love you.”

   “Even with—even with this silly cut that hopefully won’t scar?”

   “Yes,” Shiro laughs, freely, “even with that silly cut.  And even if it leaves a scar, I know I’ll still feel this way.”

 

   Lance laughs, too, and his blue eyes seem to be drowning in fields of dancing stars.  “Well, I’m glad my brain-to-mouth filter decided to fail today,” he admits, and Shiro grins, “because it somehow led to this. And I—”

   Shiro’s heart skips a beat. “And you?”

   “I like you, Shiro.  And I think I might actually love you, too.”

 

°

**Author's Note:**

> In the end I didn't manage to fit this in the story, but I had originally thought to include a random hc I have that Keith doesn't grow a beard at all. He's pretty much hairless, and so when Lance calls him to ask for advice on how to shave using a knife/blade, Keith is as lost as Lance himself is. He ends up giving half assed advice that's not that bad, actually. Lance still manages to cut his cheek because, well, shaving wih a knife IS hard.
> 
> blesswetshiro


End file.
